Listen to the Girl
by LolaB
Summary: [Lost In Translation] A wee, cute little scene, post-ending. Couldn't think of a title so I used the song lyric I'm sure we are now all familiar with - psh, it works. :P (::holds up sign:: 'Will work for reviews. Or chocolate.')


August 8, 2004. I saw Lost In Translation just over a week ago and fell in love. I haven't written fanfic publicly in a long time, but somehow I was immediately inspired. I cried at the ending (and still do every time I watch it :P), so I felt the need to write something that made me smile again. This is just a wee little scene that takes place after Charlotte returns home to Los Angeles.

I don't own the movie or the characters. Duh. Even Sofia got a bunch of ideas from real-life experiences and true stories, so technically she doesn't own it all either. :P LOL. Either way. They're way more hers than mine. ::bows to her brilliance and superiority::

Hope you enjoy. :)

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All I could hope for was that he'd find it himself, rather than Lydia fishing it out of the pocket next time she dropped his jacket off at the dry cleaner's.

Luckily, I'd thought of that.

'Charlotte's All-Night Sushi Delivery – 555-0441'

It was the best I could do on about forty minutes of sleep and a pen with about six words' worth of ink left.

The apartment seemed so empty after we got home. Emptier than when we'd left, somehow. John had more or less zonked out the second we got to LAX after what I'm convinced was the longest flight in history, but somehow we managed to make it back to the apartment. He kept his eyes open long enough to put down his camera equipment and kiss me goodnight, and he was out.

I got out of sleeping by arguing that I was still on Japan time. Of course, considering I hadn't exactly been on the most regular schedule for the past week to begin with, jet lag scarcely hit me at all.

I didn't realize how tired I was until it took four rings of my cell before I even glanced at the phone. Yawning, I reached across the dining table and punched the first button my fingers came into contact with.

"Hello?"

"Yes, hello, I was just wondering if you deliver to Los Angeles as well, or is this strictly a service of the metro Tokyo vicinity?"

I grinned. "Hey, you."

"Hey."

And just like that, I was twice as awake.

"It's two in the morning," I noted.

"Well, you did specify all-night. You really should be careful of false advertising."

I laughed – silently, it seemed – or maybe exhaustion was just starting to dull my five senses, one by one. Either way, it did little to numb the pang I felt knowing he was no longer a mere four-second elevator ride away.

"How was your 'fright'?"

"I got an extra pack of surprisingly edible Japanese pretzels... other than that, dreadful. You?"

"That's not fair," I whined. "I only got one pack."

"That's all right, I saved my second one. I'll fax it to you."

I giggled.

There it was, that precious silence. But something about it now was different. I was sitting in my own apartment and felt less at home than I had halfway around the world, only hours before.

I propped my feet up on a chair. "How was the ballet recital?"

"Oh, not bad. I tripped over my pointe shoes a couple times, but, y'know."

"Yeah, they're a bitch, aren't they?"

We laughed.

"How's John?"

"He's fine. He's sleeping." I slid a cigarette out of the box and scanned the room for my lighter. "He asked what I did while he was gone."

"Ah," he observed. "And what did you do while he was gone?"

I smiled. "Well, you know. Got lost in the emergency room, hooked up with total strangers. Survived a fire alarm. What else do people do there?"

"Really, really bad talk shows."

I couldn't help laughing. "Hey, yeah, I saw. They aired it on the plane. Nice."

"They say people do really stupid things in foreign countries, but I think I deserve the Oscar on that one."

"He's very... colorful."

"I honestly don't think I'd ever seen that many shades of orange in one place before."

Still smiling, I dragged myself out of the chair and grabbed the lighter I'd spotted on the counter, holding it up to the end of my cigarette.

"Still smoking?"

I froze. "How did you..."

"Well, I should probably tell you, I have hidden cameras all over your living room."

"Oh, really? I'm in the kitchen."

"Damn."

I grinned. For a moment there was another silence – and then, for kicks, I crossed over to the living room, sprawling out on the couch.

"So, Mr. Harris," I began. "What other stupid things did you do in your foreign country this time?"

A protracted, slightly unsettling pause. "You know, I can't think of one thing."

"Yeah?"

"Except, well, leaving, of course."

He could always make me smile.

Unfortunately, people who can always make you smile generally possess the flip side power, too – the ability to trigger tears.

I swiped at one in the corner of my eye, chuckling nonetheless. "Yeah, that was pretty stupid of you."

"I know. We would have made a great jazz band."

"Hell yeah, with your voice? Golden."

"Thanks."

I could almost feel the sarcasm dripping through the cracks in my phone, as memories of karaoke emerged in some part of my brain that was still miraculously awake.

In the background, a vague, distant female voice cut through the silence on the other line. I was glad he couldn't see my face fall this time.

"You'd better get back to bed."

"Yeah, I'd better."

"I'm glad you called."

"You'll sleep, won't you?"

"I'll try." I hadn't in weeks, and he knew it, and tonight wasn't looking optimistic – but I didn't want to worry him. "You'd better check up on me, though," I joked.

"Oh, I will," he assured me. "I still have to make sure your toe gets better. Make sure it doesn't, you know, sprout a head, or a pair of legs or something."

"It's much better, thanks," I laughed.

"Okay."

Nodding, absently, I took a deep breath. "Okay."

"Goodnight, Charlotte."

"Goodnight."

I barely remember putting down the phone before my head hit the owl pillow from the hospital gift shop and my eyes fell shut, not to reopen for nearly sixteen hours.

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[fin.]


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